Of Vincent
by The Swimming Fish
Summary: He notices that her nose is considerably similar to his, though admittedly it is more feminine. Still, it is long and straight. He never particularly liked his nose, but if his nose looked anything like hers, he didn't think he minded anymore. VN/MxOC
1. Meeting

_Disclaimer: I do not own any of the lovely characters from Bones ~ I intend no copyright infringement. I worship the ground that Kathy Reichs walks on and admire her endlessly for inspiring Bones. I do not own Vincent (though I wish I did), Angela, Hodgens, Booth or Brennan. However, I do own Vincent's lover. If you wish to borrow her (as I have borrowed the other characters), please ask._

* * *

><p>She blinks at him.<p>

He notices that her nose is considerably similar to his, though admittedly it is more feminine. Still, it is long and straight. He never particularly liked his nose, but if his nose looked anything like hers, he didn't think he minded anymore.

Her eyes are very blue. They are colored like the ocean, he thinks. They have a little greenish blue in the middle and dark blue around the edges. They are looking right at him. Her lashes are dark brown. He is quite sure they are real, despite the fact that they are spectacular.

She looks young. He guesses no older than 19. He looks her up and down and hates himself. He feels like a dirty old man, looking at this young woman with interest. In actuality he's only 24, but he feel miles away from acceptable.

Her lips are pink and full. They curve gently, and he imagines that she could be on lipstick commercials or ads. Of course, he hopes she is actually possessing of intellect, but he's learned in his years that a person usually looks good or is smart. It's not usually both.

Her head tips inquisitively and he realizes her perfect lips have parted to speak. Her words wash over him in waves. He is still staring at her lips. Without knowing how he knows it, he is sure his lips would fit hers quite nicely, like they were made for each other. Her words then hit him. "Hello, nice to meet you."

He shakes her hand, and her skin is rough on the pads of her fingers and heel of her hand, but smooth otherwise.

* * *

><p>His hair is dark, dark brown and sweeps over his forehead. He has this charming grin. It is alarmingly disarming; it could stop a tornado in its tracks, she's sure. His eyes are this color that she can't decipher; she could have sworn they were dark brown when she approached him. They were dark and deep and swallowed them both. But now they gleam light blue—lighter than hers, lighter than her brother's. They are pale glass, his eyes.<p>

His face is smooth and she watches in wonder as the grin slips from his face. He does not let his smile fall away for dread or dislike or uncomfortable reasons, but simply because his expression is replaced with one of awe. Though she has never met anyone who has been struck by lightning, she is quite sure that this is what a person would look like immediately after. She is also quite sure she looks the same.

Her hand snakes out on its own accord, and it takes her a moment to realize it's headed for his cheek, possibly to caress it. She quickly redirects it and extends it to shake.

"Hello, nice to meet you."

She has every possible phrase or greeting (ranging from "Bonjour!" to "I love you.") battling off her tongue except this one, so of course this is the one she speaks.

His hands are warm with long fingers that she imagines would be good for precise work. She wonders what he does for a living. This question fights to leave her throat with all her other thoughts, so she clamps her teeth shut in fear of making a fool of herself.

She realizes that in the time it took to suppress her raging words, he has spoken to her. He looks at her expectantly and gives her an indulging smile, as if understanding how lost she feels, coaxing her in the right direction. She only clenches her jaw tighter.

"What's the matter, cat got your tongue?"

He has a British accent. A _British accent._ Her insides melt.

"Better to keep quiet and be thought a fool than to speak out and remove all doubt."

She had not meant to say it, but feels oddly relieved when she does. It explains everything, and she knows it. The alarmingly charming grin is back on his face, and she realizes they are still holding hands. She is determined not to look at their hands, in hopes that he never remembers and never lets go.

* * *

><p>"My name is Vincent Nigel-Murray, it's a pleasure to meet you as well."<p>

Her eyes are far away, tunneled into his, and he's sure she didn't hear a word he said. She looks dazed, confused, like she's been hit over the head with a baseball bat. He gives her a small smile. Her eyes snap back, and he sees the look in her eyes. It's rather frightened, as if panicked that she missed something important, something she can't fix. The expression looks very at home on her face.

"What's the matter, cat got your tongue?"

She seems to sink about a half inch when she hears him talk. He notices.

"Better to keep quiet and be thought a fool than to speak out and remove all doubt."

He is quite sure there is a grin on his face, but he's not all that sure. He can't feel his face, he can't feel his toes. He has to tell her he understands and that she is not a fool, he never thought she was one.

"Did you know that fear of public speaking is called glossophobia? The word comes from the Greek glōssa, meaning tongue."

Facts are his answer to everything. Though he realizes she is not speaking publicly, he knows the message will hit home. He is just as ridiculously knowledgeable as she is.


	2. Loving

He smiles at her, and she notices the deep dimples on both of his cheeks.

She notices something new about him every time she sees him. She looks at it as a constant quest to know everything about Vincent. She knows it will never end.

"Did you know that men experience love at first sight more often than women?"

She now well knows that he is from the UK, but his accent gets her every time. She melts a little inside, something he was quick to notice when they met. She is still star struck every time she is with him.

His words tend to hit her late. She has taken to interpreting his words, as he seems most comfortable communicating in facts. Facts are safe and solid, he says, whereas everything else I say is, well, not.

"You love me?" she leaps ahead, digging to the roots of his meaning.

* * *

><p>She is more clever than he could have hoped for, and he supposes that he'll have to throw out that theory about pretty people not possessing intellect. Her eyes are far away and her face is serene. He could spend the rest of his life studying her.<p>

"Did you know that men experience love at first sight more often than women?"

He did not mean for that to come out, he really truly did not. She glances at him and her face seems to slacken in peace, almost. She does it every time he talks. He is not a man for taking advantage of people, but he secretly loves the power his accent has over her. He thanks every higher power he can think of for being born in the UK.

"You love me?"

His heart stops.

It starts again, beating once, twice, and-

"Yes."

He means to ponder her question more, as it is a very important question, and finds that he doesn't need to. He's known the answer since he saw her.

* * *

><p>His arms are long and thin, like his fingers and they wrap around her completely as she steps to him. She is quite sure she could stay here forever, if not longer.<p>

He is very warm. Just like his hand, on the first day she shook it, he seems to give off a warmth that never leaves. It envelopes her and she sinks into it. She looks up at him and they are so, so close. They have known each other for four weeks. Their noses are almost touching. They've seen each other almost every day. She never notices until now how similar their noses are, though his is admittedly more masculine. There is a magnet pulling her towards him. It is going very slow, and she feels like both pulling in the other direction and pushing closer to him.

She is so very scared. She doesn't want to mess this up.

* * *

><p>She steps into his embrace. When he was young he would imagine the love of his life falling into his arms and him kissing her senseless. When he got older he was quite sure he would never find the love of his life. Four percent of people never get married, you know.<p>

He is quite sure now that he is holding onto the love of his life. She looks up at him and her hair is wispy and falls around her face. Her hair is blonde, and extremely soft. He brushes it out of her face. Their noses are almost touching. All the sudden, they're kissing.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he dimly realizes that he was right—he knew when he met her that their lips would fit together perfectly. They do.

They are both oddities, dorks, as some would say. And they are happy that way.


	3. Perfecting

He has never really known what it is like to be in love. He always supposed it would be a frenzied lusting, though he knows from his facts that that is not correct. Still, he never anticipated this desperate and gentle need. It makes him lighter than air, it makes him heavy like sleep. He is quite sure this is not normal. She is his very best friend. She is his lover. She is his everything.

It is Tuesday and he cannot find it in him to leave her side, to clean himself up, to get ready for work. He still has an hour before he needs to be there, he reasons. He moves closer to her. But Dr. Brennan will not be happy if I am late, he thinks. He runs a hand through his hair. She reaches over and fixes his hair, brushing it with an angelic flick of her wrist.

Her hands are small, with short fingers. She always complains when she plays the viola that her fingers are too short. When she does, he always takes her hand away from the neck of the instrument. He carefully kisses each finger. He looks her in the eye and tells her that her fingers are just perfect.

She mumbles something in her soft, flute-like voice. He nuzzles her neck and asks her to repeat it. She kisses his jaw and says, "No."

"No?" he asks, dumbfounded.

"No." she says firmly.

"Well… why not?" he asks. This woman puzzles him consistently. He likes to look at her as a challenge.

"Because I like your confused face more than I should," she laughs and her head tips back a little. "No, I said that I do not want to go to work. I never get anything done on _Tuesdays!_" she adds in an exasperated voice. She has an alluring personality, to him. He has never met anyone like her, but he is sure that even if he did, it would not be the same. She is witty and clever, as well as just as quirky as he is.

"Would it interest you to know that the most productive day of the week is Tuesday?" He is always, always spouting facts and he never really means to, but he supposes it is okay. She hasn't asked him to stop. It still surprises him that she doesn't say 'NO' when he starts off 'would it interest you to know…', like all his co-workers have always done.

"Oh, so you're telling me to leave and go to work?" Despite the fact that she has the most angelic face he has encountered, she has a smirk that could rival anyone's.

* * *

><p>His eyes widen whenever he thinks he has offended her. He is sincere, and she is worried that one day a cutting remark of hers will cut too deep.<p>

"N-no!... Never," he whispers. She is quite sure he didn't mean for her to hear the last part. His voice is even better when it is quiet. She thinks it is almost as if it is hers alone, when it is quiet. She wishes she could bottle his voice and keep it in a jar, something she could open and inhale on lonely nights.

She must be smiling, because he offers her a tentative smile. She is always smiling these days.

"Well, I really must go to work," she says with a sigh. She never realizes how reluctant she is to leave until she is leaving, at which point she wants to cling to him for the rest of her life. Maybe she will.

He groans. His voice is a deep rumble at times like these. The groan is rather sensual, though she is sure he doesn't mean it that way. She swears she hears him whisper 'don't.'

He is sincere and innocent… mostly. He is the perfect, steady frame to lean on, and his never ending warmth is a comfort she cannot seem to do without anymore.

She gets up and walks away regretfully, but knowing she has to. She is so cold without him. She is always cold now. She stretches and pulls on a sweatshirt. She grabs keys, bag, and glasses before she turns.

His eyes are pale glass. They are beautiful, liquid mercury. They are staring at her, and she feels an undeniable pull towards him.

"Thou art to me a delicious torment," she whispers. She winks.

She takes one last long look before she turns and leaves.

* * *

><p>"N-no!... Never," he adds the last part in a whisper. He didn't mean for that to slip out. He is always doing that with her, saying something he doesn't mean to. He just thinks things so hard that they seem to just slide out.<p>

She smiles widely at him. Her teeth are pearly white. He knows she had braces when she was young—she told him so—but it's easy to imagine they have always been that perfect, like the rest of her. He smiles back at her; he cannot help it. Even if he didn't want to smile, he would be powerless to stop himself.

"Well, I really must go to work," she says. She sighs, and it is so lovely he wants to catch it in his hands and keep it close to his heart, like a whisper that she is always there. He hears the reluctant resolution in her voice and groans. 'Please don't,' he thinks. He may have even whispered the last part, he can never tell.

She walks away and he has the strong urge to reach out and catch her waist, drawing her back. He, however, has excellent control over his hands. Usually, anyway.

She stretches. She has a lovely figure, in his opinion. She is not skinny. Still, she is curvy, and he wants her this way. Any other way would be strange, and just not the same. She pulls on a sweatshirt and he finds it odd to see his angel wearing something so mundane as a sweatshirt. He blinks. It is his sweatshirt. She has not noticed, and he doesn't feel like telling her. He likes that she is carrying part of him around all day.

She picks up her things. She has a graceful quality that he cannot place; not like a floaty quality, but a natural grace. She turns back to him, and he finds her eyes. Her eyes are very blue. They are like the ocean. He falls into them and drowns. He doesn't want to come up for air.

"Thou art to me a delicious torment," she whispers. She winks.

He loves her so much. It always surprises him when that fact pops into his head. It is one of those things he knows to be true, no matter how many times he doubts it, questions it, worries over it. He loves her.

She has an odd enthusiasm for quotes. He loves facts. They are strange together.

* * *

><p><em>The quote "Thou art to me a delicious torment," is by Ralph Waldo Emerson.<em>


	4. Breaking

He walks up behind her. He presses a kiss to her cheek. Her skin is soft, strangely so. He's never met anyone with skin so soft, and he wonders what she does to it to make it so. Or maybe it's just natural, like the rest of her. For a while, soft kisses would make her spin around into his arms. She had adopted his grin, and it stretched from one side of her face to the other. She would lean into his chest and press an ear against it. She would listen to his heart beat. But not today. Now she stands still. She doesn't spin around, she doesn't even turn to look. Her brow is furrowed.

"What's wrong?" he asks gently. Her eyes flick to his face, and he is lost in a rain storm. A blue, blue rain storm. Her eyes are rainy much more often these days.

"Nothing," she replies slowly. She acts like she needs to think about it, and it makes her answer seem true. This scares him, because he _knows_ she is lying. There was no witty response, to quick smile. Something is wrong.

* * *

><p>"What's wrong?" he asks. She looks at him, and she sees his face melt a little. He has puppy eyes, she thinks. She never understood that expression. Now she knows; they are sad eyes that make you want to hold the possessor with everything you have.<p>

She is too harsh for him, she knows. Just seeing his eyes is proof enough. She is so cruel to hold on this long when she has known for weeks now that she will break him. She has always been a person to break things. But she can't pull away. She loves him so much. She has since she saw him.

She hates lying. She doesn't hate many things; she realizes that life is too short to hate. But she hates lying. She looks at him before answering slowly, "Nothing."

She walks away, and wills herself to not look back. She can imagine his face. It is most likely a mess of puzzlement and disappointment. She feels sick to her stomach. _Just turn back._ She wants to run to him. She wants to hold onto him. She just wants to see his face so badly. She wants him. She always does.

Weeks of worrying, of being the weak link, of hating her clumsiness when it comes to peoples' feelings—it all spirals in her head and compounds into a decision. She is set. She will not be the one to break him.

* * *

><p>He sees her. He never really pays attention to his surroundings when he is near her. He does today, for reasons he cannot pin down. They are in a park. He has a bad feeling. Parks are never good, are they? He doesn't know any facts about parks. It makes him uneasy.<p>

She often has that expression he saw on the first day he met her. Like she's broken something she can't fix. When she makes that face, she looks like a small child. She is terrified.

He often associates terrified faces with terrifying things. He is not sure if he is the terrifying thing, or if she is.

He isn't exactly sure what's going on. She is impassive, besides the broken expression he is sure she isn't aware of. She looks like an angelic portrait painted in fine paints by a master. He can't help but think this, even though she is so obviously distressed. He wonders if anyone else can see it.

She stands. She walks towards him. She looks like she is resisting the urge to run. He wonders when he started reading into her actions so much. He can only guess, but he is quite sure he is right with all his assumptions.

Her weight is shifting back and forth, from foot to foot. She told him once how she doesn't like her feet, doesn't like feet in general. He doesn't really like her feet either, doesn't like feet in general. He wouldn't tell her that though.

She closed her eyes. He thinks of this as a great loss. "'You don't drown by falling in the water; you drown by staying there.'" She opens her eyes. They are full of tears. He thinks this is even worse. "I can't be the one to drown you."

He knows what's happening, he just doesn't know how to stop it. He feels like his chest is pinned to the ground by something heavy. His breathing speeds up. She is in his arms, and he's not sure when she got there. A fact, he needs a fact. He needs something concrete to solidify the situation, to keep things in control. His mind is completely blank. He starts to panic. There is always a fact.

"I break things. I can't break you, I won't." Her tears are salty. When she cries, it looks like her eyes are leaking ocean down her cheeks. Her tears fall down her cheeks and run onto his cheek where it is pressed against hers. His head is bowed and his mouth is open, panting like he's been running a mile. His lungs are hurting and he can taste her tears. He doesn't know what to do. He's gasping for breath. He can't get air. He thinks he might faint. His eyes are blurry and it takes him a moment to realize he's crying too. Her arms are wrapped around him and he desperately thinks that maybe she won't let go, maybe she didn't mean it.

If he were religious, he would pray to God. This is the first time in his memory that he wishes he wasn't an atheist.

She lets go, and he is quite sure that his heart is tearing. There is a sharp pain in his chest, and he always thought the pain people talked about was metaphorical. It's not.

* * *

><p>She keeps telling herself that now he's safe, she can't hurt him now. It's not much comfort.<p>

She hurts so much she thinks she's dying. She thinks maybe dying would be less painful.

* * *

><p><em>Gosh, this chapter was really painful to write. I try to make things realistic and I get far too invested for my own good. Let me know how this chapter went? Unfortunately, I am leaving for three weeks and so it will be a while before anything is updated. I'm so sorry! Don't worry, things will get better, I promise!<br>_

_The quote, "You don't drown by falling in the water; you drown by staying there," is by Edwin Louis Cole._

_Please review with corrections, thoughts, and ideas! I accept everything and anything._


	5. Mending

_... Just kidding. I couldn't wait. ;) What can I say! I couldn't leave poor Mr. Nigel-Murray like that for weeks! Okay, NOW there won't be any updates until I get back.  
><em>

* * *

><p>Life goes on. He attempts to follow this fact that he knows to be true, but he finds he cannot.<p>

For a week he hurt. It was sharp and crippling. The next week he was sick. He still wonders if his emotional pain manifested itself into germs. The next two weeks he was numb. He is still numb.

He has met Mr. Fischer on two occasions. The interns don't really get chances to interact. He always wondered why Mr. Fischer was so down, so blatantly obsessed with, well, being _gone_. Now he understands. He feels sick. He feels tired. He is sure he looks a mess, but he can't find it in him to care.

"Okay, while you're working on that I'll start a facial reconstruction," Angela says. He can hear and see her, but not really. He is deaf and blind, trapped in a box somewhere in his brain. He thinks it is quite ridiculous that one person can affect him this way. Though, not just any person, he argues, the person who is possibly the love of his life. But how can she be, he thinks sadly, when she is gone? He has missed what everyone is saying. Dr. Brennan leaves the platform and Angela rounds on him.

"Okay, what's wrong?" She sounds thoroughly annoyed. He finds it in him somewhere to be annoyed right back at her. Can't she see he is in pain? She has always been good at interpreting feelings. She could at least show some sympathy.

"Nothing," he says lamely. He internally winces because of the awful similarity to the conversation he had with _her_ before they ended.

"Come on, Vincent," Angela says with maddening disbelief; why can't she leave him alone? "I _know_ when something is wrong. You haven't spilled one fact today."

"Did you know," he begins in a harsh tone, "Did you know…" he loses steam, his voice softens to a hurt tenor, "that an elephant can die of a broken heart?" Now Angela's face softens and she walks to him quickly, wrapping her arm around him. Her pregnant stomach prevents a full hug, but she rubs his back and he appreciates her so much in that moment. She looks at him long and hard. When Dr. Brennan looks at him, he feels like he is being examined, x-rayed. When Angela looks at him, he feels like she is probably looking at his soul.

"Go get her," Angela whispers gently. "Go get her, honey."

He is sure Angela is going to be a good mom. She doesn't tell him 'it happens,' or, 'she wasn't worth it.' She tells him to 'go get her.' She knows what matters. He knew he would have to do this, he just needs the command. She breaks his bonds of mourning. _Go get her. _He doesn't know how to thank her. He feels a smile on his face—the first in weeks. He can't wait to meet her baby.

* * *

><p>She has not seen him in weeks.<p>

She feels sick all the time now; she is sure that in loving Vincent, she jumped through a rabbit hole, and she can't go back. Her only consolation is that she can't hurt him at this distance. He'll move on and fall in love, he'll find someone good for him, someone who doesn't break things, break people.

It doesn't stop her hurting. In the short time they were together, he had become her best friend. She thinks of those couple months fondly. She wants her best friend, her lover back.

She can't do that to him.

She thinks she sees him all the time now. Whenever she looks closer, it is just a man with the same hair as him, a man about his height, a man with a similar build. She hates the way her heart flutters at the sight of each man that is _not_ Vincent.

She has a terrible habit of wanting what she cannot have.

She is absentminded, without him. She inspects her reflection in the morning and is depressed by it. Her skin is sallow, her eyes are dulled. She walks in the park where they ended. It is pouring salt in an open would. It hurts so badly, but she doesn't want to forget any moment of him. She sits on a bench, and she sees him walking towards her. She is sure that she has finally fallen off the deep end. The stress must finally have caused hallucinations, she muses. Still, she didn't think she minded if the hallucinations are of him. Tears fall down her face, but they do not obscure her view of him.

She can see, quite clearly, that he does not look well. He is pale and rather thinner than she remembers. His hands are shaking. She wonders why her hallucinations would ever portray this shadow of Vincent, when the perfect version of him lives comfortably in her memory.

She realizes she is standing. She feels the need to run to him. Her legs tense up, as if ready to spring. She aches all over, like her body is working hard against itself. Every _atom_ of her wants to be near him.

_I can't break him._

But she looks again, and she thinks he may be broken already. She certainly would not let him reach his deteriorated state if she were with him. She would protect him from anything. And then it hits her.

She was so, so wrong, she realizes with a jolt. _Leaving_ broke him. She caused what she needed to avoid. But how could she ever fix it? She hurt him. She _hurt_ him. He probably came to tell her he had moved on.

She didn't know if she could hear that.

* * *

><p>He walks closer and closer to her. Her body is quivering. There are tears in her eyes. Her eyes are not like the ocean anymore. They are like rock or stone, cold and grey. He is sure, all at once, that she hurts nearly as much as he does.<p>

He finds himself saying, "You can't break me. Even if you did, I wouldn't go anywhere."

She melts, just like the first time she ever heard him speak.

This time, she does fall into his arms. Her knees look weak and he's pretty sure her legs have collapsed, but she's light as a feather and he holds her up easily.

"'By three methods we may learn wisdom: First, by reflection, which is noblest; Second, by imitation, which is easiest; and third by experience, which is the bitterest,'" she quotes in a trembling voice, "But I didn't learn wisdom from my experience! I just learned I break things." She cries out the last part, nearly beside herself with grief. "It was supposed to keep you safe; I thought I was wiser, I wouldn't break you like the last one…" She is crying on his shoulder, she is mumbling things that he pieces together into a fractured story, he is kissing her forehead and holding her tight.

She broke someone. She had learned. She wasn't going to do it again. She tried to save Vincent. She did it again.

He isn't sure he understands, and he isn't sure he needs to. He isn't sure he'll need anything ever again. She is his.

"I'm not going anywhere," he hears himself. He hears it, and he knows it is true. She still loves him, she always has. He will never leave her. "I love you," he whispers into her hair. "I love you."

She gives him a watery smile. He wipes her tears away, and she laughs at how ridiculous she is. He kisses her cheek, her mouth, her nose. She wraps her arms around his neck and kisses him full on the mouth.

"I've missed you," she whispers against his lips. He gives her that charming grin, and her world stops.

* * *

><p><em>Please tell me what you think! I'm worried it's a bit too rushed... Also, tell me if you want me to go on.<em>

_The quote, "By three methods we may learn wisdom: First, by reflection, which is noblest; Second, by imitation, which is easiest; and third by experience, which is the bitterest," is by Confucius._


	6. Drinking

_Hello, lovelies! I have returned! Sorry I have taken so long ~ a trip to Europe and a radical haircut can stall my creative writing quite effectively. Anywho, I have decided to realign dear Vincent with the story originally planned for him by the writers of Bones. If you do not like sad tales of drinking, do not read this chapter._

* * *

><p>He staggers in.<p>

This in itself is strange and it takes her a moment to process it. He is slight, and he looks unusually fragile to her. His eyes are unfocused, like clouded glass. His chin droops onto his chest. His hand flails to the wall, and he makes his way to her. When he is close to her, she can suddenly smell it. Alcohol.

He kisses her, and it is sloppy. "Did you know that when you kiss, 200 million germs per second are passed between mouths?" His voice is slurred. _Really_ slurred. She can taste the alcohol on his mouth, it is so strong. She rests her hands on his chest, to keep him from falling.

"How much have you had to drink, Vincent?" She meant to ask him if that fact was true—it doesn't seem like one of his normal facts—but this question is so loud in her head that it stamps on her intent and leaps out of her mouth.

Vincent's face is comically confused. It then breaks into a ridiculously large grin. "No more than normal, lovely," he is slurring, his mouth morphing around the words he speaks as though it is absurdly difficult. He stumbles to the couch, and she follows him anxiously.

"How… how much is normal?" She has never seen him drunk before. She isn't sure how this is possible, if this is 'normal' for him. They have been together for months. Though, they don't live together, so she supposes that he might go drinking after work. She wouldn't know.

She looks at him worriedly, and she realizes he is snoring softly. She pulls a blanket off the back of the couch and lays it over him. She fleetingly wonders how he got home. She worries that he drove himself, but thinking of how he walked, she is sure he didn't drive. He would not have made it.

Her eyes water unexpectedly. _He would not have made it._ She decides to talk to him in the morning. She sits on the couch next to him and strokes his hair softly.

* * *

><p>He awakes with a pounding head. His mouth is filmy and thick, and he craves water. He groans as he realizes he went drinking the night before. He attempts to open his eyes, but they are gummy and don't want to open. He brings his hands to his head, fingers to his temples. He did not mean to go drinking last night. Wendell convinced him to. He and Wendell had become fairly good friends. Wendell isn't aware of his problem though, he thinks bitterly. No one is.<p>

He peels his eyes open, and they burn painfully once exposed to the air. The sunlight streaming through a window pierces his skull, causing him to slam his eyes shut in pain. He groans again. He hasn't had this bad of a hangover in a while. He must have been really smashed. At least he doesn't have to go to work today, he thinks.

It takes him a moment to recognize that there is a warm shape near him, leaning on him. He sits up, and his stomach heaves. He dry-retches, having nothing in his stomach to lose. He shades his eyes and opens them, ignoring the painful ringing in his skull.

He closes his eyes again. He hopes his aching brain is playing tricks on him. He opens them again, and his heart drops. She is sitting next to him, leaning on him. She must have fallen asleep sitting by him. He looks around, ignoring the soreness that stiffens his neck. He is at her place. He inwardly curses. Why, why, why? He remembers blurry pictures of The Founding Fathers bar, Wendell, Wendell's car, and the very couch he is sitting on. He remembers… kissing her? He isn't sure; it's all rather unclear in his mind.

She suddenly shifts, taking in a deep breath. He holds his own breath, hoping she won't wake. He doesn't know how to face her. He can't even remember what he's done. He's ashamed that he came here like this. How could he? She'll surely be disappointed. His head is heavy and he needs time to think about what to say to her, what to do. He needs time to think, to get rid of his hangover.

Fate is not that kind to him. She stirs a little, then opens an eye. She gives him a tiny, sad smile. His heart breaks from humiliation.

* * *

><p>"How are you feeling?" she asks.<p>

He doesn't answer her, just stares imploringly.

She is determined to act normal. He will say whatever he needs to say when he's ready. She stands up, stretches, and rolls her aching shoulders. She walks into her small kitchen, and fills a glass of water. She carries it back to him.

His eyes are full of shame. He won't look at her as he takes the water, drinking it slowly. He finishes the water, and stares into the glass fixedly. She realizes she's holding her breath.

"I don't usually drink that much." The end of his sentence makes her think he'll say more, but after a moment, he closes his mouth, apparently finished. Or at least unsure of what to say next.

Suddenly she can't look at him. She turns away. She doesn't blame him for how he acted last night. She knows he could hardly control that, but she does blame him for how much he drank. What if he had gotten in a fight, in a car crash? If he had been injured beyond repair? It would have broken her.

"Yeah? How much do you _normally_ drink?" Her voice is choked, and she damns her vocal chords. She does not cry easily, and him getting drunk is a stupid reason for her to cry, she thinks. She hasn't cried since that day in the park. This is a miniscule happening compared to that.

"Look, I'm getting help!" His voice is desperate. She spins around quickly. Help? She was just upset that he could have gotten hurt, being that drunk. He should know better. Her brain casts around wildly: does he have a problem?

"What?"

She is scared.

* * *

><p>"Look, I'm getting help!" He is desperate for her to understand. He usually isn't this bad; he's been so good about abstaining for a while now. He supposes that when he finally got his hands back on the bottle, he couldn't help himself from overdoing it. He wants her to understand, maybe even be happy that this didn't happen sooner, or end up worse. However, he realizes his mistake as soon as he says his words.<p>

She spins around, her eyes searching his face. He feels another stab of pain to his head, specifically his temple, as if punishing him for being so idiotic.

"What?" He voice is shocked and empty. She doesn't know. Of course she doesn't know.

He doesn't want to tell her. It's the most shameful thing about him, he decides. It started long ago, but it didn't get bad until she left him briefly. When she came back, it didn't stop. So he went for help, eventually. And now, he sits here, not wanting to tell her this. She'll blame herself, he knows.

But he has to tell her the minimum, the facts.

He puts his palms to his temples and shuts his eyes.

* * *

><p>She never knew this fact about him. That he drinks. That he drinks more than is good for him, more than he can help. She wonders what it's like for him, the world getting blurrier as he swallows. He didn't say anything about his feelings on the topic. He only said he drinks too much. She wonders if he fights his hand raising the glass to his lips for another drink. She wonders if he's fought so many times that he's given up. She wonders if he detests the poison he's drawn to.<p>

She's afraid to ask. She's afraid of the answer.

She's never been afraid to ask anything, until now.


	7. Ending

_Dear lovelies~  
>I have been gone for a time; school and such does that to a person. This is the conclusion to my tribute to Vincent. I love him dearly, and now I can put him to rest. :) If you do not want to hear the end, do not read. For those who wish to finish the journey: please read, please enjoy, and if you are willing, please review.<em>

_The song quoted at the end is called 'Vincent' by Don McLean. It truly is a marvelous song, if anyone is interested.  
><em>

* * *

><p>He's not sure what happened. There was a phone call and glass tinkling like rain into his hair, and he was tackled to the ground, but he still isn't quite sure why all that happened. He can't put the events in his head in the right order. He looks down and there is red all over his chest and Booth. Booth must have been shot, he thinks suddenly. But Booth is pressing on his chest and Bones, ever calm and levelheaded Bones, is looking so panicked. He was shot, he realizes. Though, that doesn't make sense to him. He doesn't hurt at all. There is a feeling in his chest like a popped balloon, but he feels no pain. And then he is terrified. People live when they hurt. He doesn't hurt at all.<p>

He definitely doesn't want to leave. He has to tell someone, tell Dr. Brennan. He needs her to know that he's not giving up, that he's always trying. Always, always trying.

He's breathing faster. When did that happen? He hasn't been running, he thinks dimly. He hasn't been climbing stairs, having sex, or kickboxing. All of which, he thinks, are good reasons to be breathing hard.

He wants to shake his head back and forth, hard, to knock some sense into him. What is happening? Why is he thinking such things when he could be dying? He pales. He is _dying_.

There is suddenly an acute pain in his side, in his head, in his eyes and he thinks the tears are coming now. His breathing is faster and there is more and more red on Booth. He feels like there is a knife slicing straight down his chest and he wonders frantically why they have begun the autopsy; he isn't dead yet.

The ceiling is sparkling above him and the pain is fading. He realizes that he is being silly; of course they wouldn't autopsy him yet. His blood is like sickened water, trickling down his sides. He wonders if it tastes like pomegranates. It is so very red.

He wants to shake his head again. He is panicked. His thoughts just won't reflect it.

No matter how hard he gulps down air it feels like he isn't getting enough. His vision is clouding and he has to find something to keep him here. Dr. Brennan! She can keep him here; she knows everything. She is the goddess of the dead; she must know to keep them from coming to her.

"Please don't make me go!" His voice sounds too pleading to his own ears, even if everything coming in his ears seems a little distant.

"You don't have to leave, you're my favorite!" He thinks Dr. Brennan says something along these lines. But he can't really tell, her voice is too faint, his brain won't comprehend her words exactly. Perhaps the bone lady can't save him after all. He can feel his heart beating faster and faster; sooner or later it will either shudder to a stop or implode. He needs something concrete, to hold him here, he thinks. He needs a tether.

If anything could hold him here forever, it would be her.

"I don't want to leave here…" It's like she's right in front of him, all of the sudden. "I love it here."

* * *

><p>The phone is ringing. Perhaps it is Vincent, she thinks.<p>

He hasn't called in two days.

* * *

><p>There is something broken inside of her. It hurts so badly she collapses. There is a terrible screaming in her ears that raises the hairs on the back of her neck. It tears through her ears and echoes in her head, bouncing off her skull and rattling down her spine. There are dry, choking sobs that sound like despair and misery. There are gut-wrenching, throat-tearing screams. They are hers.<p>

She needs to find where she dropped the phone, to beg the woman (Camille? Cameron? she doesn't really care right now) on the other end of the phone to tell her it is a lie. Just a lie. Just a story. And to please, _please_ put her Vincent on the phone _NOW. _She cannot find the phone, she cannot find the floor. They have both deserted her in favor of someone who has a handle on reality.

Her temples are pressing in on her consciousness and her eyes won't focus on anything solid. Shapes are blurry and spinning and all the sudden…

The floor finds her.

* * *

><p>When she wakes up, she cries.<p>

* * *

><p>She sees the coffin and freezes.<p>

The wall of false hope and security she built around her heart clatters and falls into rubble. Her blood feels like electricity, slicing down her veins at the temperature of ice.

This is really happening, and she didn't think it would.

The lady from the phone (she still can't remember the woman's name; it just doesn't seem important enough) has a hand on her back. It radiates warmth, but she feels like ice. She cannot look, but she has to. She has to see him, has to save him in her head for eternity, because this is her last chance. He is going back to England. Broken. Forever.

She walks forward. It is probably more of a drunken stumble, but she is indifferent to herself. To everything. He is five feet away.

Three feet.

A foot, maybe.

But her eyes are closed. She reaches out a hand. She opens her eyes enough to barely see through the shady curtain of her eyelashes. Her hand is trembling. It rests on his hand, and her eyes jolt open.

It is wrong.

He has always been so warm, just so naturally comfortable. She leans onto his still chest and he is cold. She has the strong urge to vomit and her body is wracked with waves of nausea. He isn't warm anymore. She needs to hear his voice, his beautiful wonderful voice with an accent to keep her from fainting or falling into oblivion. But he won't talk anymore. She heard his last words were, "Please don't make me go, I don't want to leave here. I love it here." He begged. He _begged_ to stay_._ Another wave of nausea hits her.

The love of her life is gone.

Her vision blurs with tears but they freeze over her eyes and her eyes crack. A bullet of pain tears through them and her cracked eyes rain like diamond glass onto a dead lover. Of course, everyone else only sees tears. Her throat is sandpaper. It is desert. It is raw. Her throat must be bleeding with these screams that seem to grip her insides and clench them over. She cannot tell. She cannot care.

The woman (Camille! she realizes in a sudden moment of terrifying clarity) grips her hand and everything she sees is abruptly sharp and crystal clear. She whips around to face Camille. Her face must be startling. Why would Camille look at her that way otherwise? She frantically wipes under her eyes, but it turns out like clawing. There must be mascara there. Doesn't that happen?

She needs to leave. She needs to stay. She needs forever with someone who _isn't,_ anymore.

She turns back to Vincent. He is so pale. She presses a kiss to his forehead. There is more nausea. There are more tears. She looks at him one last time. She wishes she were blind, she wishes she were dead, too.

Now she leaves. She doesn't just leave, she runs.

When she gets to where she wants to be, she is breathing hard.

* * *

><p>She doesn't sleep for two days.<p>

When she does, it's from exhaustion. She is somewhere between being awake and sleeping. It is her favorite place these days. There is music in the back of her head, it is playing louder and louder as she gets closer to real sleep.

But for now, she is not quite asleep. She knows she is lying in her bed, but her Vincent is walking towards her, lying down next to her. He is smiling and warm, he is kissing her nose and her closed eyelids.

"Keep going," he says. He has a British accent. A _British accent._

The music is louder and louder. She can even hear the words now.

"…I could have told you, Vincent, this world was never meant for one as beautiful as you."

She fell asleep.

They loved forever.


End file.
